A Light in Every Corner
by Lolli Locket
Summary: In 1943, Harry Potter is Tom Riddle’s best friend. They’re attempting to make their own Time Turner when a simple folly fast-forwards Harry to the year 1996, where Tom has gone insane and the wizarding world is in chaos. HPDM AU
1. A L T E R N A T E

**A Light in Every Corner**

* * *

_Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness. _

Chinese Proverb

* * *

_1938_

The world was in black and white for Harry Potter. He saw colors in pale hues to the point of being colorless. Life was a series of lackluster days spent doing chores and being bullied by his bigger cousin, Dudley Dursley.

Harry knew that he was lucky. He saw homeless people – adults, old people, and _children _even younger than him – in the streets on his way home from school. They were bedraggled, emaciated, and pitiful. And here was Harry, living with relatives who despised him, eating three meals a day with a sturdy roof over his head and warm water in the tub (they even had a _tub_).

Sometimes, though, those things weren't enough. When Harry huddled under his coarse blanket on top of his small cot in his cupboard under the stairs, he often thought that being hungry would be a small price to pay for his mum's warm smile or his dad's proud eyes. He could barely remember them; they were only shadow faces in his deepest dreams. Aunt Petunia had no pictures of Lily, her younger sister and Harry's mum; not even a single photograph of them growing up. Some days, he spent long minutes staring at the looking-glass, trying to guess which of his features came from his mum or dad.

The Dursleys, and Harry, lived in a good neighborhood with identical houses and trim lawns. It was peaceful in Privet Drive (Little Whinging, Surrey), unlike the tense, frenzied atmosphere in London. Rumors of war with the Germans were spreading fast all over the country, like a disease that promised death. Harry wasn't too young – he was eleven – that he couldn't feel the strain of these whispers whenever he was brought along to any excursions to London. Petunia would grip Dudley's hand tightly, even if Dudley was no longer a little boy, while Harry followed a few paces behind.

It was on one of these trips that something peculiar happened.

Petunia waited in the queue to the butcher's shop, trying to hide her impatience, and snapped at Harry to stop fidgeting.

Harry's fingers twitched, as did his left eyebrow, and he kept hopping from one foot to the other, or seesawing on the balls of his feet. He couldn't stop the movements and felt something restless unfurling in his chest. It caused him to tap his foot in an irrational rhythm and tug at his messy hair. People were beginning to give Harry odd looks and Petunia snatched Harry's hand from his head, her grip painful that Harry had to suppress a wince.

"I told you to keep still," Petunia hissed into his ear, darting a nervous glance around her. She brought her other hand to pat Harry's shoulder and said in a louder tone, "There, there, Harry, we'll be done soon. No need to get so worked up."

She let go of Harry but left reddening imprints of her fingers on the boy's thin wrist. Harry hastily pulled the long sleeve of his shirt to hide the marks. He kept his head bowed, fists clenched in the effort not to move. He took a deep breath and began reciting the times table backwards in his head. It took up most of his attention that he didn't even notice the tiny jerks of his fingers, the little motions he did that repeated in interchanging patterns. It looked like he was having some sort of fit.

"Is he all right?" a worried-looking woman in front asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Harry blinked; he hadn't even realized he'd been squirming again.

Petunia's expression was a cross between anger and fake-concern. "He's been a bit agitated all day, my nephew. You know how children are these days, so little patience…"

The woman eyed Harry a moment longer before nodding and turning away. Once certain that no one was paying them any more attention, Petunia placed her hands on Harry's shoulders and _clenched_. Harry gasped.

"Do not move," she warned in an undertone, her nails inciting another flinch despite the fabric under them.

"Madam, that is no way to treat a child," a disapproving voice spoke from behind them and Petunia stiffened as a small man stepped into view. He was wearing dark green robes and his hair was nothing but a white tangled mess. "If I may, the boy is only experiencing a surge in magic. Quite normal, though he's a bit young; it usually happens when they're almost of age. Here, I've got just the thing to help with the involuntary movements. A side effect, as you know, mimicking the firing of stimulus through the nerves."

The man slipped his hand inside his robes and Petunia made a distressed sound – her face had gone deathly pale at the mention of 'magic'. Harry, for his part, stared at the stranger in fascination even as his mind rejected the very idea the other man was implying. There was no such thing as magic. His Aunt and Uncle were adamant about it; they even refused to let Dudley indulge in magic tricks that involved coins and playing cards.

But –

But.

Harry sometimes dreamt of –

"Aha, here it is," the man proclaimed as he drew out a blue vial with a flourish. He pulled out the stopper and thrust it at Harry; the sunlight caught the glass in a strange way. "Here you go, lad, a bit of Calming Draught will do the trick. Careful, though, because too much will relax your muscles to the point of being unable to use them. Just take a sip and nothing more."

Harry wasn't stupid. His teachers had impressed on him years ago to be cautious of strangers who gave away bizarre treats. The way his Aunt reacted, her fingers still digging into his shoulders and her body stiff, should have made him even more suspicious. But there was something about the man, loopy as he was; a friendly, unguarded look in his eyes that Harry had never experienced before, not for him.

His hand reached for the vial and sniffed the top with all the curiosity of an eleven-year-old.

Petunia inhaled sharply. "Don't even think about –"

Harry's elbow jerked abruptly and Harry made a decision: he drank.

It tasted bland, whatever was the liquid inside the glass, but it immediately cooled as it slid down Harry's throat. A pleasant feeling permeated through him until he felt tranquil. The agitated coil inside of him eased until he was in control of himself again.

"Wow," Harry said with feeling, eyes wide behind his glasses.

All of a sudden, Petunia slapped the vial from Harry's hands and it fell to the ground. It didn't shatter. Harry stared.

The man frowned. "I say, that was uncalled for!"

"Stay back, you _freak_," Petunia cried, drawing the attention of the queue to her, and dragged Harry away by his collar.

"What's your name, lad?" the man called out. "I am Pontofin Diggle!"

"Harry Potter," Harry answered as if by compulsion. He waved at Pontofin Diggle as he was manhandled all the way home.

-

Harry was kept in his cupboard for the rest of his summer as punishment. He was only let out to use the bathroom, and only when it was absolutely necessary. It was the longest time he'd ever been trapped in his prison and after a week, Harry developed a growing sense of claustrophobia. He bit his tongue, though, unwilling to beg for his freedom.

All the while, Harry thought.

He was an observant boy, due more to the fact that most everyone left him alone and that distance gave him time to study others. He was the parentless, bespectacled loner in school who was constantly terrorized by his own cousin. Harry wanted to have friends but not those who pretended that he deserved the abuse he got from Dudley. He was quiet and received passable marks and kept to himself. What they didn't know, however, was that Harry was quite the dreamer. He made up for his dreary, pathetic existence by coming up with fantastical ideas. Harry made sure that these thoughts never took on a physical shape, knowing instinctively that the Dursleys would never approve. They had a deep fear of anything that wasn't considered normal.

The man, Pontofin Diggle was his name, had talked about magic as if it was as real as the sun in the sky. He'd worn strange clothing and given Harry a drink that literally calmed his unexplainable restlessness.

And Petunia had reacted, if a little belatedly, with such intensity that it could only be seen as _personal_. It all pointed to one thing: it was _real_.

Magic was _real_.

For all of his secret flights of fancy, Harry couldn't comprehend what a magical world was like. Were there wands? Spells? Dragons? Elves?

It lit up something within Harry - the part that had him thinking of questing heroes and flying objects - and most of all, it made sense.

Because there were times when mysterious things happened to Harry, so rarely and far apart that they seemed like accidents. Thinking of Pontofin Diggle, and the vial, and that word – _magic _– made it all possible. Harry let his imagination free within his small cupboard, seeing a world where he was accepted, and liked, and _powerful_. He hated being so young and helpless, dependent on relatives who only fed, clothed, and schooled him because they wanted to project the image of being a caring family.

_Magic, _thought Harry longingly.

-

A loud ruckus woke him up from a deep sleep. Harry blinked and tried to make sense of the angry words he heard. There was a large shape – Vernon – on the other side of his cupboard and Harry shuddered in dread, wondering what he'd done to make his Uncle furious. It took him a moment to realize that Vernon wasn't shouting at him.

Harry sat up, confused, and rubbed his eyes. Vernon would never yell at his wife or son and it was then that someone else spoke in a voice Harry had never heard of before.

"…keeping Mr. Potter in a _cupboard?_"

The tone was mild but held an underlying current of steel in it. Harry slid off his cot and hesitated.

"You are not welcome in this house!" Vernon raged even as he sounded panicked at the same time. "Leave, leave, or I _will_ call the authorities!"

The stranger was not threatened. "Mr. Dursley, the only person who has committed a crime here is you, treating an innocent boy like this."

"He's not – he's a bloody _freak_. We took him in, knowing what he is, and swore we'd _cure_ him of it. We don't want to mix in with your _kind _and – "

"I'm a tolerant man, Mr. Dursley," the stranger interrupted in a heavy voice, "but I won't stand and listen as you insult my people. Please kindly release Mr. Potter."

"Vernon, just let him have the boy," was Petunia's trembling plea. "Think about what he could do to us."

There came the sound of heavy breathing before Vernon finally moved away. Harry let out his breath, eyes wide, as the door was opened by a tall man wearing purple robes. His white hair – or was it beard? – was so long it went past his waist. A friendly, wizened face appeared by the doorway. "Hello, Harry," the man said in a gentle tone and motioned for him to come out.

Harry did so, a little warily, and saw his relatives huddled by the kitchen door. Petunia's arms were wrapped protectively around a gawking Dudley, her lips pressed into a thin line. Vernon stood next to his wife, face a blotchy shade of red and he seemed ready to burst with indignation.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore," the tall man introduced with a dip of his head. "I'm a wizard, Harry."

Harry looked up at him hopefully and Dumbledore smiled.

"And so are you. You should have received your Hogwarts letter when you turned eleven; an invitation to attend one of the prestigious schools of magic."

Harry felt a grin tugging at his lips, shoulders sloping in relief. He was a wizard. Magic was real and Harry was a _wizard_. He didn't have to make believe, or be satisfied with dreams, because Harry could do magic. He didn't understand it, or knew anything about magic, but it didn't matter. Harry resolved to learn all that he could and become powerful. Ambition was a novel feeling and left Harry's head spinning with questions.

"We will never pay for him to receive such disgraceful education!" Vernon warned as he pointed a shaky finger at Harry. "We've spent enough raising the wretched boy and we won't give up another shilling."

Anger rushed through Harry at the unfairness of it when Dumbledore placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Your generosity is duly noted, Mr. Dursley," the wizard said with heavy irony lacing his voice, "but Harry will not have a problem in that area. We must leave now, I'm afraid, for we still have school things to buy. I will bring Harry back safely once we're finished and I'll give him the instructions he needs for the start of term. Come, Tom."

It was then that Harry noticed the other boy, who looked to be Harry's age, standing behind the wizard. He had black hair like Harry, only it was neatly combed, and a pale face with dark eyes that stared intently at Harry.

"This is Tom Riddle," Dumbledore said as he waved a hand in Tom's direction. "He'll be going to Hogwarts as a first year as well, Harry."

Harry nodded, giving the boy (who was _like him_) a nervous smile. After a while, Tom nodded slightly in his direction. Dumbledore was clearly pleased by this. He turned to the Dursleys and his eyes dimmed.

"We'll be off, then. Come on boys, to Diagon Alley we go."

-

Dumbledore left them at Madam Malkin's as they got measured for their school robes. Harry was fascinated by the measuring tape that moved on its own and so was Tom, though he hid it better.

"Your relatives are horrible," Tom said bluntly, the first words spoken between them.

Harry glanced at him, startled. "Oh, they are. I mean, I can't believe they didn't tell me the truth about my mum and dad. I knew that Aunt Petunia didn't like my mum but I never thought she hated her. Er." Harry flushed slightly and quickly changed the topic. "What about your parents?"

Tom gave him an assessing look.

"They're dead," the other boy finally answered, holding Harry's surprised gaze. "I live in an orphanage."

Harry bit his lip. "We're rather alike, aren't we?"

For a moment, something akin to a sneer passed Tom's face before he eventually nodded. "In that part, I reckon. I don't know you."

Harry didn't know what to say. He wasn't good with talking to people, especially those of his age, and he'd never met another orphan before. Harry wanted to befriend Tom because there was something about the other boy, a spark of something in Tom's eyes, a thirst to prove himself and become someone not to be overlooked simply because he was an outsider. It mirrored the determination in Harry perfectly.

"We could be friends," Harry suggested boldly and maybe a little hopefully. In truth, though he was thrilled to be going to Hogwarts, he was afraid of what he'll find there.

Distrust bloomed in Tom's eyes. "I don't need friends, Potter, and if you tell anyone about my past –"

"I wouldn't," Harry muttered dejectedly, lowering his eyes. He felt the familiar pang of rejection and awkwardly shuffled his feet.

They didn't talk after that.

-

_September 1st _

Harry found an empty compartment easily enough and took out his Defense Against the Dark Arts book, which he'd been engrossed with for the past few days. The weeks that had led to this day were spent reading through most of his books, soaking information like a sponge. Harry was not a big reader but found himself opening book after book, mesmerized by the things he was learning. Magical history was fascinating, as well as the hundreds and hundreds of spells, charms, and curses listed in the tomes. Harry could hardly keep away.

The Dursleys' weren't happy with him and pretended as if Harry hadn't existed for the last few weeks of summer. It gave Harry the freedom to examine his newly acquired things, especially his wand; holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. The white wood felt warm and comfortable in Harry's hand and he had felt a strange surge during his first contact with it. Sparks had gone off at the end in a colorful display, bouncing harmlessly on Harry's skin.

Harry was eager to get to Hogwarts and start casting spells. He'd been dismayed to learn that he wouldn't be able to do magic anytime he wanted unless he was of age (seventeen in the wizarding world). It was disappointing, even if Harry understood the reason for it.

The door slid open and a young girl poked her head in. She gave a slight smile when she saw Harry. "Hello, I'm Minerva McGonagall. Do you mind sharing your compartment?"

Harry quickly shook his head and tugged his book closer to his chest. She came inside and put her trunk away, sitting primly from across Harry. Her hair was dark, her eyes keen, and she wore her black school robes with the red-and-gold badge stitched into the fabric.

It was Gryffindor, one of the four houses in Hogwarts, named after Godric Gryffindor who helped found the school nearly five hundred years ago. Harry read that they were usually brave and loyal and almost always for the side of good.

"Are you a first year?" Minerva asked kindly.

Harry nodded. "I am." Then he remembered his manners and quickly added, "Um, I'm Harry Potter, by the way."

"I see you've already started your books," she observed with a pleased smile. "Are you aiming for Ravenclaw?"

"I don't know which House I want to be in," Harry answered truthfully, trying not to fidget. He pushed his glasses up, gaze trained nervously on the floor.

"You probably won't have a choice in the matter," Minerva explained with a little nod. "The Sorting Hat decides that and it's never wrong. It would be nice having you in Gryffindor."

Harry muttered, "Thanks."

He didn't mean to be rude but Harry didn't know what else to say. It was like with Tom all over again, except that Minerva seemed to be a genuinely nice girl. He glanced up and found her observing him with a thoughtful look and Harry ducked his head, staring intently at his book. He was never going to make any friends if he continued being impolite.

The rest of the train ride was done in silence as Harry found himself absorbed with his book once more. Minerva had fished out her own book after a while and only the rustle of turning pages, and the occasional whistling of the train, were heard. Harry's thoughts strayed to Tom now and then, wondering who the other boy was sitting with. He couldn't imagine Tom in any sort of conversation with anyone.

Finally, the train came to a stop and the excited chatter of children rose in volume. Harry and Minerva put their books away and readied their things. She bid him farewell and was soon lost in the crush of bodies leaving the train. Harry took a deep breath and jammed the pointed hat on his head as he left his compartment.

"First years, first years over here!" a loud voice called and Harry joined the shuffling boys and girls toward the side of the station. It was dark and Harry wasn't able to see much, but he could make out a looming shape in the distance. While the older students slid into horseless – horseless! – carriages that followed an unseen path, the first years were led by a jovial-looking wizard to the edge of a lake, where little boats waited for them.

"Four to a boat, now; mind your steps," the wizard called.

Harry stepped into the nearest one and was soon joined by a bespectacled girl and twin boys. They gave each other edgy smiles as the boats began gliding across the lake, propelled by magic. Minutes later, they passed under a curtain of hanging ivy and into a small underground inlet where the first years were ushered up the path that led to the front doors of a massive castle. The oak doors opened and the first years entered a cavernous room lit by torches. Many turned to stare at the four immense hourglasses each located in its own niche. Harry stared as what looked like rubies in one of the massive glass structures winked at him from under the torchlight.

Dumbledore waited for them in a small room and he smiled happily at the children.

"I am Professor Dumbledore and welcome to Hogwarts," the old man said with a sweeping gesture of his right arm. "In a while, you will be led into the Great Hall for the Sorting, and then the welcoming feast. I pray this will be an exciting year for you all."

Harry surreptitiously glanced around him and spotted Tom near the front, standing next to a little blond boy. Professor Dumbledore caught Harry's eye and gave him a discrete wink and the boy suppressed a smile. He rather liked Professor Dumbledore.

"Hello," the bespectacled girl from earlier whispered hesitantly. "I'm Myrtle."

Harry blinked. "Harry."

"Are you nervous for the Sorting?" Myrtle asked, tugging on one of her long pigtails. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty. "Mum told me that you'd have to sit in front of everybody and wait for the Sorting Hat to tell you where you belong."

"What if it can't decide where to put you?" asked Harry softly, worrying his bottom lip.

Myrtle shook her head. "They'll have to put you _somewhere_."

A few others had heard them talking and murmured amongst themselves, casting cautious looks at Professor Dumbledore.

It was then that the tall wizard took out a gold pocket watch and put it away. "All right, it's time. Follow me, please."

They did, forming the same single line as they were led back out into the entrance hall, crossed the length of it, and into another set of wide double doors.

Harry's eyes widened with awe, observing the many candles that floated above everything else; they were lit but no wax fell. Beyond them, the ceiling looked like nothing Harry had ever seen indoors. It was as if someone had taken the roof and opened the castle directly to the night sky. The moon was a perfect round sphere surrounded by countless stars. Harry knew from _Hogwarts: A History _that the ceiling was enchanted to mimic the sky outside. Wonder was blatant on his thin face at seeing this; magic was capable of _anything_.

His other yearmates seemed enamored with the enchanted ceiling as he was, though by now Harry had noticed the rest of the room. Four long tables stood vertically in the middle and robe-clad students sat on either side. In front was a raised platform where another table was found, this time occupied by the Professors. At the very front of the platform sat a stool and a battered-looking hat atop it. A wide gash formed at the base of the hat and it began to sing:

_I am only me, the Sorting Hat,_

_To put you in the place to be,_

_From the head of Godric Gryffindor _

_The Founders entrusted the task to me._

_Tattered and old, I do look_

_But I've years of knowledge in my fabric; _

_Placed over heads different yet same, _

_Sorting you lot like magic._

_Four Houses there be, _

_All noble and true;_

_Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin, _

_Only one is meant for you. _

_Perhaps in Gryffindor you belong_

_Where chivalry still lives; _

_Or with honeyed Hufflepuffs _

_Who justice and loyalty gives. _

_Better yet in Ravenclaw_

_Where the keen of mind dwell;_

_If a wise scholar you wish to be_

_Then in Ravenclaw you will truly excel._

_Lastly, but not least, _

_There is Slytherin to consider;_

_Cunning of mind and ambition _

_Are the traits they empower. _

_So you may think you know_

_The proper place for you,_

_Then place me on your head_

_And I'll tell you if it's true! _

The school burst into applause, the first years loudest in their appreciation as they had never seen or heard a singing Hat before. Professor Dumbledore pulled out a scroll from his robes and unwound it. In a clear voice, he called out, "Applebody, Holden."

A slightly chubby boy with sandy hair tentatively moved up the platform and sat down on the empty stool. His face appeared vaguely green before Dumbledore dropped the Sorting Hat on his head. There was a brief pause, where Holden Applebody seemed frozen on his seat, and then the Sorting Hat opened its mouth and yelled, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The second table next to the far wall, all wearing yellow and black badges, erupted into welcoming applause. Applebody eagerly trotted over to his new House as Dumbledore called another name.

The Sorting passed this way and each time the black hat proclaimed another student to this house or that, Harry's nervousness grew. His vivid imagination felt like a double-edged sword, regaling him of increasingly horrifying scenes of his own Sorting, where the worst possibility of all was that Harry just sat there, and sat there, until Dumbledore snatched the hat away and said that it was all a terrible mistake.

"Newberry, Myrtle."

Myrtle took a deep breath and moved forward, where she sat down and Dumbledore placed the hat on her head. It didn't take long for the hat to say, "RAVENCLAW!"

Harry clapped along with everyone else as Myrtle headed to her table. Three more students - the twins ended up in Gryffindor - were sorted before, finally, "Potter, Harry."

Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat and climbed up the platform. He could feel hundreds of eyes on him, weighing him, judging his worth, and Harry half-expected someone to jump up and shout that he didn't belong here. Harry focused on Dumbledore's kindly smile as he got on the stool; the hat was lowered on his head and went past his eyes.

"_Well, you are interesting,_" a high-pitched voice said from the inside of the hat. Harry felt stiff, gnawing on his bottom lip. "_You've got a clever mind, boy, and a thirst to prove yourself. And power, oh my, yes. You'd do well in Gryffindor."_

"_Any House is fine with me_," Harry thought a little desperately and earned a chuckle at that.

"_Is it now?_"The hat sounded amused. "_You will do well in whatever House I put you but there is one place where you will truly shine. Yes, yes, it better be _SLYTHERIN!"

He let out the breath he'd been holding, relieved beyond anything to have been sorted into any house that he didn't immediately think about actually _being _in Slytherin. He knew that they'd had their fair share of Dark Lords, and some truly incredible wizards and witches, and that most of them were Purebloods. Harry had read in _Hogwarts: A History _that most Purebloods either went to Gryffindor and Slytherin, while plenty of Half-bloods and Muggleborns ended in Hufflepuff.

The hat was pulled off his head and Harry briefly caught sight of the somber look on Dumbledore's face before he climbed down the platform and slid beside the blond boy, Tobias Malfoy, in the Slytherin table. A few of his new Housemates peered curiously at him and Harry kept his gaze at the front of the hall.

Right after Harry was Tom's Sorting and it didn't take a long time at all for the hat to send him to Slytherin. Tom took the seat across Harry, his eyes – very dark green – staring at Harry speculatively.

"I knew you'd be in Slytherin," the blond said with a small smirk.

"There's nowhere else of worth," Tom murmured as they waited for the rest of the Sorting to finish.

One more girl was Sorted into Ravenclaw – Medea Courtley - and Dumbledore tucked the scroll away with a beam. He walked behind the High Table and as he sat down, the small, feeble-looking wizard in the middle stood up.

He spoke in a squeaky voice that resonated within the Great Hall. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts. I am Headmaster Armando Dippet and I say we begin another year of wonderful learning!"

As if on cue, food magically appeared on the empty platters; all sorts of food that had Harry's mouth watering. He was never starved at the Dursleys but they had never given him more than was absolutely necessary, either. He quickly schooled his features, not wanting to seem like a starving boy in front of a feast (though honestly, it was what he was). He noticed Tom giving him a look he couldn't read and decided not to dwell on it. It seemed as if Tom had already set his mind on disliking Harry and Harry knew when to keep away. Tom had that sort of manner about him, intense and vicious, and Harry didn't want a repeat of his bullied years at Muggle school here in Hogwarts. However, Harry had also decided early on not to be the scared little boy he used to be; as long as nobody bothered him, there wouldn't be a problem.

Harry took a little bit of everything that night, even if he did not have much of an appetite most of the time. He ate slowly, relishing each tasty bite without having Aunt Petunia saying, "That's enough for you, Harry; give the rest to Dudley." The others were chatting quietly, a stark contrast to the noise and movements coming from the Gryffindor table.

"Are you really a Potter?" Malfoy asked as Harry decided to pour a bit of chocolate all over his fruits for dessert.

Harry started. "Well, I've always been a Potter. My dad was a wizard and my mum a Muggleborn. They died when I was little, though."

Tom seemed a little amazed at how easy it was for Harry to say this to others. Harry inwardly shrugged; they were bound to know sooner and later and it wasn't as if he was going to lie about it.

"James Potter?" It was Avery this time, arching a brow in a way that looked both surprised and disdainful.

"Yeah," said Harry. He didn't know anything about his father except for the fact that he'd been a Pureblood and had once been in Gryffindor. He'd wanted to ask Dumbledore more about him but had been unable to. It was his secret mission to find out more about his dad and mum here at Hogwarts.

"Father thought that the entire Potter family had been killed," Malfoy explained as he gracefully drank from his goblet. Harry stared a little; he'd never seen someone with such manners before. Then again, Harry had never known anyone who was probably wealthier than the Dursleys' fifty times over. He was still astounded at the amount of money his parents had left for him in the family vault at Gringgots. Harry wasn't a big spender, since his relatives didn't trust him with money, and he vowed never to give them even a single Knut to splurge.

"I survived and was left with my Muggle relatives," Harry muttered as he dropped his gaze to his plate.

"Imagine having to live with Muggles," Malfoy said in a put-out tone. "Or having one as a mother; it's sort of disgraceful to your ancestors."

Harry tensed. He didn't like it when anyone insulted his parents, not even his Aunt and Uncle, and having heard that from Malfoy was enough to make Harry's eyes narrow. He disliked fights, or having enemies, but he wasn't willing to let anyone sully the memory of his parents.

"I may not remember my mum," Harry said quietly, meeting Malfoy's eyes head on. "But I know that she was a great and powerful witch, Pureblood or not." After all, Dumbledore had said so. "I want to get along with you guys but I won't let anyone say anything bad about my parents."

It felt strange, as if it wasn't Harry who was speaking but someone braver than him. It still felt exhilarating though, when a long minute later, Malfoy eventually nodded in understanding, even if his lips were still twisted in derision.

It was Avery who broke the silence. "Quite ballsy, aren't you? Sure you weren't meant for Gryffindor after all, Potter?"

The other boy's tone was slightly teasing and Harry relaxed, smiling a little. Maybe things would be better here at Hogwarts. "Maybe, but I'll do just as well in Slytherin."

Avery, who sat beside Tom, gave a little smirk. "Says the little Half-blood."

Tom, who'd been listening all the while with a blank look on his face, said nothing as Harry and Avery began mocking each other lightly (and the former feeling exceedingly strange and elated about it).

The feast ended a while later and everyone stood from their seats. A prefect by the name of Iphigen Duke called the first years and led them down to the dungeons. They came to a stop in front of a stretch of stone wall and Iphigen turned to them. "This is the entrance to the Slytherin common room; password is _asphodel_."

The wall trembled and slid open like the compartment doors of the Hogwarts express. They all stepped inside and Harry found himself in a long room with a low ceiling. The high-backed chairs had details of skulls and there was a carved mantelpiece on the fireplace and on it where moving photographs of solemn-looking wizards and witches. Above it was a massive portrait of a regal man with a glossy beard, intense eyes surveying the first years. Harry had seen him in one of his history books – it was Salazar Slytherin.

"Our Head of House is the Runes professor, Professor Armand Ruttley; he's unavailable right now but will meet you tomorrow night," Iphigen informed in a soft, melodic voice. She gave the first years a tight smile and pointed to a set of doors at the end of the room. "Girls to the left, boys to the right. Curfew is at nine and we don't tolerate the loss of house points. Slytherin has a reputation to maintain and you lot won't embarrass our name, you hear?"

Harry murmured in answer along with his yearmates and they were sent to their different dormitories. It was a square room with three windows on each corner and Harry thought they must be charmed to show the weather outside, considering the fact that they were below the castle. He was glad for them; he was feeling slightly claustrophobic for being in such an enclosed space.

Four-poster beds were aligned next to each other with their trunks already in front of each. There was an elegant desk for each boy and Harry gleefully sat on his mattress and it dipped under his weight. It felt softer than anything Harry had ever touched before, the bed bigger than the ones the Dursleys' had. He saw Tom examining his own bed with pleasure and their eyes met.

To Harry's surprise, Tom gave a slight incline of his head before turning away.

"I think I'll write to father that I'm in Slytherin," Malfoy said to nobody in particular as he took out a blank piece of parchment and his writing supplies.

Harry felt lighter than he'd ever been in his life. Hogwarts was his home now and he was determined to do his best. With his mind whirling with everything that he'd seen so far, Harry got ready for bed.

-

Yes, well, please do leave constructive reviews :)


	2. P A S S I N G

**A Light in Every Corner**

* * *

_There are two kinds of light - the glow that illumines, and the glare that obscures._

James Thurber

* * *

Life at Hogwarts was weird and wonderful. Harry couldn't say that he was friends with his fellow Slytherins. He walked with them and ate with them and spent time in their – often condescending - company; but most of those things could simply be explained by the fact that they all had the same schedule. Harry didn't have much common with Malfoy and Avery and often he merely listened to them talk about their lives, sometimes ignoring the underhanded barbs to his Muggle upbringing. Many older Slytherins weren't happy with the idea of having a Half-blood in their midst and once or twice, Harry had been confronted because of it. He'd held his own, if not with spells and jinxes, then with enough slyness to escape them without getting sent to the Hospital Wing. Avery, who was clearly the nicer of the two, usually stood to the side in case Harry ever needed help. Harry didn't ask for it and the two first-year Purebloods treated Harry with more respect.

Tom had it easier. He was convinced that he came from an obscure Pureblood family and maintained the same story Harry did; only he twisted his, saying that he was raised as a Pureblood instead. It wouldn't have worked if it was anyone but Tom, who acted like a Pureblood himself. The boy was uncommonly intelligent, able to perform spells correctly the first time, and his memory was infallible. He only needed to look things up once before he remembered the.

As it were, magic came easily to Harry that it was almost instinctive. He was delighted by how natural it was to hold his wand and let the incantation fall from his lips. It was easy for him to study and learn magic; as if the magic was eager to do as he bid. Though he didn't have the inborn genius that Tom seemed to be showing, even now so early into their education, Harry was powerful and his creativity only worked in his favor.

It was soon clear that both of them were the two best students of their year. Most of their professors liked them enough, impressed by the ease and eagerness they took to their studies. While Harry was quiet, there was an open quality about him that spoke of a sweet boy underneath. Tom was simply intimidating and committed, even as a first year.

Predictably, the two saw each other as rivals. Harry, who didn't used to be competitive, felt the need to prove himself on par, or even better, than Tom, and Tom felt the same (truthfully, he was annoyed that somebody like Harry Potter could challenge him when his preferred Pureblood company fell short).

Professor Dumbledore, who taught Transfiguration and turned out to be one of the most brilliant wizards alive, seemed to favor Harry over Tom. It wasn't an overt display of favoritism – Dumbledore loathed to think of falling so low – but it showed when he bestowed much warmer smiles for Harry. Only someone who paid close attention even noticed it, however, and Tom always observed the smallest detail. It irked him even more that Harry, who slept in a cupboard and was reviled by his relatives, came from a Pureblood family, had enough galleons to see him living comfortably for the rest of his life, and was regarded positively by a powerful wizard.

But there was one thing that Harry would never beat him at and it was a secret Tom guarded heavily with his life.

-

_December 8th _

Professor Ruttley stood up from the High Table and approached the Slytherins who were having a slow breakfast. Harry stifled a yawn as he swirled his spoon in the bowl of pale porridge. It was what everybody was having that morning, much to the displeasure of many. Harry didn't mind; porridge was a constant staple back at the Dursleys.

Harry glanced up as Professor Ruttley came to a stop in front of him, a piece of parchment in his proffered hand. "Write your name if you wish to stay for the holidays," Ruttley instructed as Harry dutifully took the parchment from him. "Pass it along and return it to me by the end of the day."

"Yes sir," Harry muttered respectfully as he took out his quill. He bit his lip to quell the smile threatening to break on his face; he knew it was going to look big and stupid. A rush of happiness made Harry's script a bit sloppy as he listed his name. He hadn't even thought about the Christmas holiday and whether he would be returning home. The notion that he was to spend it at Hogwarts and experience his first magical Christmas made Harry more than a little giddy.

"What's got you so happy?" Avery grumbled as he plopped down beside Harry, less graceful in the mornings than he usually was.

"I'm staying at Hogwarts," Harry said with the grin he was unable to hold back any longer. Avery eyed him with his usual half-mocking, half-amused manner before shrugging. "I wouldn't want to return home if I had your relatives; good for you, mate. What is this – porridge? I hate porridge!"

Harry laughed. "It's all they're serving."

"Bloody house elves," Avery complained as he fed himself a spoonful and grimaced.

Harry was about to pass the parchment along when he spotted Tom making his way to their end of the table. He waited until Tom sat down across from him before handing the other boy the parchment with a huge smile.

"Here, Ruttley said to write down your name if you're staying for the holiday," Harry explained when Tom only stared at him suspiciously. A look passed over Tom's face – Harry suspected it might have been pleasure and the sight of it doubled his own satisfaction – before he added his name to the list.

"I'm sorry for you lot," Avery announced loudly as Harry handed the parchment to the second years huddled nearby. "You will be stuck here eating disgusting porridge while I will be at home with my expensive gifts."

Tom smirked. "You don't think they'll serve porridge for Christmas, do you?"

"I think it'll be like the welcoming feast," said Harry as he ate his breakfast with renewed vigor. "And we still get to use magic, don't we, Tom?"

Tom must have been feeling considerably more cheerful that morning because he readily agreed with Harry. "Yes, you're right. While you're back home with your expensive gifts, Harry and I will still be able to do spells and think of you staring forlornly at your useless wand."

Avery scowled at them. "I hate morning people. Where's Tobias? I need him to properly dress both of you down; he's better at that sort of thing."

"Not early in the morning," Harry pointed out cheekily. He felt good; he felt at one with his Housemates and generally, the whole world. "You know he'll bite anyone's head off if it's not yet past eight."

Avery threw Harry a withering look and sullenly fed himself more porridge.

Time passed quickly after that and Harry woke up one day to find Hogwarts surrounded by several feet of snow. He peered outside one of the dormitory windows that mirrored the bleak weather outside. Harry thought it was lovely; he couldn't wait to spend time outdoors. He cast a warming charm on himself, an advanced spell he'd been practicing ever since the weather first turned chilly. The clothes Harry owned simply weren't enough to keep him warm for the coming weeks ahead. Who knew Scotland could get so cold?

It was a Sunday and everything inside the castle slept, all except for Harry. He wanted to enjoy the warmth of the fireplace with no one to disturb him or order him away from the cushiest armchairs nearest the fire. He still had a Transfiguration essay to complete for tomorrow and Harry lugged his book and writing implements to the common room.

Harry went past the unlit torches and closed doors of the other rooms but stopped before he could go any further. Someone was already there, standing in front of Salazar Slytherin's portrait. Tom's hair was still in disarray from sleep and he wore an old green jumper. He was also talking softly and Harry instinctively took a step back into the shadowy corner.

"It's in the castle even now, isn't it?" Tom asked in a hushed voice, staring intently at the portrait of Salazar Slytherin.

To Harry's surprise, Slytherin - who had never before spoken to anyone since the start of term – gave the boy a slow, superior smirk. "If you are truly worthy, then you will find it."

Tom didn't back down from the assessing stare. "I will be the first person in three hundred years to open it."

"You're very cocky for a child," Slytherin commented in a satisfied tone, moving his elbow on the table as he lazily braced his chin on his knuckles. The ring on his middle finger – gold with a black stone in the center – glinted even in the dark shadows of the painting. "Your ancestors weren't able to locate it; even your smarter cousins were unsuccessful. Why would an insignificant little wizard like you be any different?"

"I'm not insignificant," Tom argued in an insulted voice, lifting his chin imperiously, "and I _will_ find it."

Slytherin chuckled and it wasn't a pleasant sound. "You, an orphan boy? Not even bred into the fine standards of my family? The old blood has truly been diluted over time."

Confusion came over Tom's face and he opened his mouth to say something when a door slammed somewhere, breaking the sense of secrecy of the moment. Harry jumped, and so did Tom, who glanced over his shoulder guardedly. There was no other choice but step forward and pretend that Harry hadn't just seen and heard Tom conversing with one of the Founders' portrait like – like _family_. His head buzzed with questions as he went forward and politely nodded in Tom's direction, all the while holding back from glancing at Slytherin in a telling gesture.

"Good morning," Harry mumbled as he chose the armchair closest to the fire and subsequently right in front of the portrait. It was uncomfortable being in Slytherin's direct line of sight and hoped that the portrait hadn't sensed him eavesdropping on their conversation.

Tom was half-glaring at him and turned sharply away from the portrait. "Why are you up so early in the morning?" Tom asked in the same arrogant tone that Slytherin had used.

Harry felt a little miffed at Tom, who was implying that he didn't have any right to be in the common room at any time he wished. He gave the other boy a pointed look. "Deciding to finish my homework, not that it's any of your business. What about _you_, Tom? I thought I heard voices as I was coming here."

Tom was better at hiding his annoyance. "Must be in your head, Harry, since no one else is here. It wouldn't be any of your business either if I was talking to someone."

Harry could have sworn that Slytherin's eyebrow twitched. "All right, then," he said as he opened the large book to the right page on his lap and unrolled his incomplete essay on the page he wouldn't be using. It was a challenge to open his ink bottle and find somewhere to put it where it wouldn't spill – on the armrest, making sure Harry didn't accidentally knock it off with his elbow – and dip his quill inside, careful not to leave ink drops anywhere. He was so intent on this that he barely noticed when Tom snorted and moved to the armchair across, where his own school things were neatly set up.

Silence reigned for a long time, broken only by the pop and crackle of the fire and the rustle of paper and scratch of quills. Harry was absorbed in his essay, trying to get the words right without having to draw a line straight through them in correction. He tried not to ponder about Tom and his unexpected chat with Slytherin, attempted not to even linger on those thoughts until after he wasn't occupied with trying to explain why it was less complicated to transfigure elements of earth into another thing than to do the same for materials associated with water.

Once he glanced up, purely to rest his eyes for a bit, and saw that Tom was actually reading a book about Salazar Slytherin. It was relatively new, judging by the state of the paper, still crisp and white, and rather thick. Harry quickly looked away when Tom's eyes flickered warily to him.

-

_December 25th _

The morning dawned cold and quiet. Harry's bed was warm from the charms, though, and he snuggled a bit further into his pillow. His right leg stretched and his foot kicked something that hadn't been there last night – Harry was a fitful sleeper, often waking up in odd positions and in a different part of the bed from where he fell asleep in the first place – and Harry frowned, sleep sliding away from him a bit more. Eventually he woke up, his toes curling against something flat.

Harry groped for his glasses next to the pillow, pushing it up his nose before opening his eyes to the darkness within the four-poster. He kicked the hangings aside to let enough light enter and squinted at the packages at the foot of his bed. They were gifts, three in all, and Harry stared wide-eyed at them before he grabbed the one nearest to him, the flat box his foot had hit. It was wrapped in enchanted paper, little snitches that flew all over the space, and Harry gave it a careful shake. It didn't rattle or explode, as Harry had suspected. The loopy handwriting said it was from Avery.

Unable to help himself, Harry flung back the curtains on the other side of the bed to reveal Tom, who was sitting up and doing something as close to gawking as the boy ever will get. Four packages sat in front of Tom.

"You've got presents too," Harry said, unable to help but state the obvious, and tugged on the edge of the wrapping paper.

Tom turned to him, eyebrows knitting ever so slightly in hesitation. It struck Harry as something awfully sad to know that they were the only boys in Hogwarts surprised to discover gifts _for_ them on Christmas morning. He wondered for the hundredth time why they weren't friends and answered himself just as many times that Tom probably didn't want to be reminded of where he came from.

Tom eyed the box in Harry's hand. "And you," he murmured with a shrug, moving his gaze back to his own pile.

"I've never gotten presents before," Harry started conversationally as he tried to guess what Avery could have possibly gotten him. Luckily, Harry had bought the other boy something for being nice – or as nice as Avery could be – to him. "My aunt and uncle gave me my cousin's stuff as hand-me-downs but you really can't call them presents. They didn't remember my birthday and if they did, it always meant doing chores and maybe an extra serving at dinner."

Harry bit his lip, wondering why he was even telling Tom any of this. They were not friends and the other boy didn't even pretend to be interested in Harry or his life. It might be because Tom's past followed a similar pattern or perhaps he simply disliked Harry.

After a long moment where Harry berated himself for being a fool, Tom shifted uneasily on his bed and softly said, "The orphanage has a charity box where the sponsors could donate their old things. Mrs. Cole would pick something from the box and give it to whoever was having a birthday, or rationing them as Christmas presents. I always ended up with picture books."

"Oh," said Harry. "At least you like to read."

Tom smirked, a faint hint of amusement in his dark eyes. He drew a similarly wrapped flat box on to his lap. "I liked some of the other things even more. They never shared with me, though. I was always a little too different from everyone else."

Harry frowned. "That's how it was in my school, only it was my cousin who told everyone what a freak I was. Did you get mad and, um," he waved his right hand distractedly, "make stuff happen? I thought they were just accidents but it turned out to be magic."

"I never get mad," Tom replied loftily, adopting that eyebrow-arch Harry could never imitate. "But things did happen because they had to be punished."

Harry's eyes rounded. "Punished? What did you do?"

The smirk widened as Tom pulled the ribbon off. "Wouldn't you like to know, Potter?"

"You're horrible!" Harry scowled, trying to keep it in place when honestly, he could care less. He was curious but his delight was great enough to keep it at bay. Maybe there was hope for him and Tom after all.

Nothing else was said as both boys unwrapped their presents, each trying to hide how pleased he was. Avery gave Harry and Tom a deluxe box of Chocolate Frogs. An envelope for Harry turned out to be a curt greeting from the Dursleys, which was unexpected. He put those aside and picked up the third gift, an irregularly shaped package that was soft and pliable in Harry's grip. It felt like cloth and Harry tore the paper away. Something shimmery fell on his lap and Harry gripped the ends and snapped the fabric open. Light and shadows danced on the material as it rippled like water.

"This is…" Harry mumbled to himself, staring in disbelief at what he held. He'd seen a picture of it in his Charms book and read a lengthy discussion about its properties, the spells used to render the wearer unseen to the naked eye.

"An _Invisibility Cloak_." It was Tom who finished for him, sounding as stunned as Harry felt. "How…who gave you _that?_"

Harry was about to shake his head when he noticed the slip of paper near his foot. He picked it up and unfolded it, reading aloud the loop writing. "_This was left in my care by your father. Use it well._" Harry looked at the cloak with a new expression on his face, one of awe and yearning. "This belonged _to my dad_."

He jumped off the bed and swung the Cloak over his shoulders. He glanced down and gasped; his body was _gone_. "Brilliant!" Harry exclaimed with a laugh, turning this way and that to see if he really was invisible. "Really, really – "

"Good for you, Potter," Tom said abruptly, sweeping his presents under the bed. "I'll be at the Great Hall while you play with your new Cloak."

Harry watched him leave with a puzzled frown before huffing in annoyance. The other Slytherin was much too moody for his own good. Harry took off the Cloak and held it close to his chest, twisting the silken fabric between his fingers. This had been his dad's and somehow, it was now Harry's. He wanted to know who sent the Cloak, how it came to be in the mystery person's possession, and to ask whoever it was about his parents. Most of all, though, Harry was simply grateful to have been given the most incredible present he'd ever received.

-

_December 31st _

The library was even larger than the Great Hall, with arching windows all over the walls to brighten the massive space. It was mostly filled up with shelves upon shelves of books; volumes that dated back to _centuries_ were available in the library, in different languages (some of them not even human), and preserved in some sort of spell that kept all of them in decent condition after all these years. The date of publication, the style of writing, and the aging pages and covers were the only indications to how old a book truly was.

It was silent, as all libraries were, and Harry found himself spending more time there than anywhere else – except perhaps his common room, though it was a much less pleasant place to be when he was considered inferior by his Housemates. It didn't bother him much, knowing that he was going to prove them all wrong eventually.

Sometimes, Harry honestly wondered where all his newfound confidence came from.

He sat in front of one of the wide mahogany tables, his copy of _Magical Theory _by Adalbert Waffling sitting by his elbow. It was opened to the fifth chapter, which talked about the dimensions of Summoning and Banishment, and Harry occasionally glanced at the text as his quill danced over a half-filled parchment. It wasn't due until after the holiday but Harry wanted to finish all of his work before then and spend the rest of his time exploring Hogwarts under his Invisibility Cloak.

He looked up when somebody took the seat across from him, chair scraping softly against the floor. To his surprise it was Tom, whose face was slightly pinched in thought.

"Potter," said Tom somewhat abruptly, drumming his fingers on the table.

Harry's eyebrows furrowed. "What is it?"

Tom seemed to hesitate and he glanced around him a few times before leaning forward, speaking in a low tone. "I…know you can keep secrets, since you didn't tell anyone about…anyway. There's something I need from you, a favor." He paused, eyeing Harry pointedly. "I need to borrow your Cloak."

He wasn't as surprised as he should be. For the past few days, Tom had been giving him contemplative looks whenever they were in the same room. Harry figured it had something to do with the Cloak. The question was where Tom intended to go.

"I'll let you use it," Harry said slowly, "if you tell me what you'll use it for."

"Don't be an idiot," Tom snapped with a scowl. "For sneaking around, of course."

Harry rolled his eyes and tapped his quill on his book. "I _know _that, Tom. I'm asking for details, otherwise it's a no. I can't just lend you my _dad's _Cloak if it might get confiscated in the end."

Tom glared at him with such anger that Harry was taken aback. The other boy's usually smooth face folded in rage and Harry felt apprehension in the pit of his stomach. It was a look he usually saw on Uncle Vernon's face in one of his madder moments. Harry didn't change his mind, though, and met Tom's fury with the determined lift of his chin.

They stared at each other for a long while, daring the other to surrender. Finally, it was Tom who gave in, hands clenching in frustration as he forced himself to lean back against the chair.

"All right," Tom snarled ungracefully. "Bloody well all right, Potter, if you really want to know. There's a book that I need, only it's in the Restricted Section and I can't ask permission from any of the professors since it's not for my studies. Happy?"

Harry thought quickly. He'd walked past the Restricted Section a few times, intrigued by what sort of knowledge was hidden behind the gate, and the librarian always shooed him away as if she sensed his intention. He hadn't even thought of using his Cloak for that purpose and was secretly annoyed that Tom came up with it first.

"When are you going?" Harry asked, even if what he truly wanted to know was what sort of information Tom needed from the Restricted Section. Could it have something to do with whatever it is he's trying to find that once belonged to Slytherin?

Tom was hiding secrets, it seemed. Keeping them locked away behind the unnerving gaze that no child should have.

"Tonight," Tom finally answered in a short tone. "Well? Will you lend it to me or not?"

Harry primly closed his book and gazed at the other boy under his fringe. "Yes, but I'm going with you."

-

They moved quietly down the corridor, tucked neatly under the Cloak. The boys managed to walk with some distance between them, maintaining a tense silence as they climbed up the moving staircases. Harry tried to shuffle his footsteps, wincing whenever a particularly loud footfall echoed in the darkness and Tom threw him a dirty glare every time it happened. It was nearing midnight, which meant that the prefects and professors were all tucked in their beds, patrols over for the night. Even the ghosts were nowhere to be found, including Peeves who liked to catch students out after curfew. The castle was eerie in its stillness, even more so with the shadows that danced and leapt under the torchlight.

Finally, they reached the library and immediately headed to the Restricted Section. They argued briefly over who would cast the spell to unlock the door and Tom won, whispering '_Alohomora_' with a satisfied smirk.

Harry huffed and pulled the Cloak off of them, draping the fabric over one shoulder as they shuffled past the gate. They stared at the rows and rows of forbidden books, their spines stiff from disuse, and the tomes somehow looked nastier than the rest of the books in the library.

A shiver of excitement raced up Harry's spine as he read the titles written on the spines, eager to gain more knowledge. Tom wore a slight frown as he walked the length of the bookcase, eyes travelling up and down the shelves. Harry mostly ignored him and reached for the nearest book to his right. It was a slim volume, the cover faded and scratched, and Harry felt a shudder go through him when he opened to the first page. The script was almost illegible, as if the author had been frantic to finish writing the book. Harry squinted at the words and turned pale when he realized that he was reading a long and very detailed instruction on torture. He shut the book and hastily slipped it back into its slot, wondering why Hogwarts would even keep such books within its walls.

Harry found a milder book, this one a recounting of Dark Lords of the past, information that was not as censored as the one in Bathilda Bagshot's _History of Magic_. It also had chapters devoted to Pureblood ideology, traditions, and how it was often tied to the philosophies of Dark Lords. Harry decided to borrow _Dark Arts and Dark Lords _and turned to Tom, intent on asking the other boy if he was ready to leave.

Tom held a book in his hands, this one twice as thick as the one Harry had, and was distinctly green all over. He saw Salazar Slytherin's mark, an ornate serpentine 'S', engraved on the cover.

"You're rather obsessed with Slytherin, aren't you?" Harry asked curiously, tugging the Cloak back up when it started slipping from his shoulder.

Tom didn't bother looking up at Harry as he replied, "He was one of the most brilliant wizards that has ever lived and he's the founder of our House. Why shouldn't I be interested in him?"

"What's the difference with that book and the biography you have of Slytherin? I mean, aren't they the same?"

"You really are an idiot," Tom said with a roll of his eyes. "Obviously, this one would have more information about Slytherin, the kind that his biographies wouldn't have. It was written by his apprentice, Armand Bode, who disappeared after Slytherin's mysterious death. All that Bode left were his papers about his mentor."

Harry blinked. "Blimey, you're more than obsessed. That's not even a hobby."

Tom ignored him and reverently closed the book. "Let's go back."

"Bossy," Harry muttered as he threw the Cloak over their heads and disappeared from sight.

-

Shorter and still going slowly. Reviews would be lovely.


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